


I Need My Girl

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Name-Calling, One Shot, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Geralt fails at a hunt, and returns to camp agitated. You help him forget the failure. There's zero plot here.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 1
Kudos: 141





	I Need My Girl

It is rare that Geralt can’t track his prey, or has to back down from the challenge of a hunt, but occasionally it happens.

When he returns to the cheerfully-lit camp where you are roasting rabbits over the flame, undoing pieces of his armour with stiff jerks as he yanks fetters through buckles noisily, his posture tense and radiating frustration, you know he’s failed in his efforts tonight. He says nothing, but his intense features advertise his irritation in the tightness of his jaw and the downturn of his lips. You frown at the flames that lick at the haunches of the meat, and consider what to do.

“Maybe tomorrow–” You begin gently,

“No. It’s _long_ gone.” He snaps, his voice a trickle of gravel, a warning of a rock-slide.

You make a small noise of sympathy as he lets his swords drop with a clatter, kneeling at the stream you’re camping by to wash his hands and rub his face clean. Slowly, you stand, and begin to gather his things, organising them the way you know he likes so they’ll be to hand.

“ _Don’t_ touch those.” He barks, as you reach for the swords, and you hesitate, throwing him a bewildered glance.

“Oka _aay._ ” You draw the word out, holding your hands up as if he’s a skittish deer, backing away from the weaponry. Sullenly, he strides over, picking up his blades; he unsheathes the smaller silver sword and begins to examine it, his molten metallic eyes obsessive over each engraved rune. Turning to return to dinner, you mutter under your breath, “So damn _touchy._ ”

He hears you, of course, and makes a sound that could best be described as a feral snarl. “I’m _thinking._ ” Is his answer, a low hiss.

“And I’m just trying to help!” You defend, whirling around again, crossing your arms. “I know you’re upset, so I–”

“So **what?** ” He rises to your challenge, and lengthens his posture to stand at his full height, purposefully looming over you. You cannot help but feel intimidated and foolish, although you continue to meet his gaze; it’s a low smoulder of aggravation, back-lit by the fire. “You thought you’d touch my swords – although you _know_ you are not to – or you thought that maybe we’d _talk it out?_ Hold hands? What could you _possibly_ do to help me right now?”

When he’s finished berating you, he’s leaned down enough that you can feel the hot wash of his breath, the unspent energy cobra-whip taut in his musculature, crackling like a summer storm. It’s an incredibly inappropriate time for your cunt to buzz hungrily, dripping in desire over the dominant man. He takes a deep breath in, and you see the shudder run through his body, the hood of his eyes; your teeth sink into your lower lip and you press your thighs together to quash the ache, which only causes a blossom of your arousal to seep into your underclothes. He’s right, though – you’ve paid for his escort through a notoriously dangerous forest, and all you can offer is food and–

“ _ **Kneel.**_ ” He commands, the single word stealing the breath from your lungs. He regards you as if _you_ are the prey now, but he makes no move to touch you; there’s an unspoken feeling that he’s taking a gamble on your desires.

But you do as he says readily, drowning in the glistening gold eye-lock, sinking to both knees in the dirt with obedience.

His grin is like the glint of an assassin’s knife, brief and sharply quick, there and then gone; in the next moment he’s undoing the laces of his breeches, freeing his cock. You’re surprised at the size of him, almost completely hard, and you realise his reaction is purely due to _you._ You flush a deep crimson, proud, and he murmurs at the sight of the blooming wild rose on your breast. “ _Suck._ ” Is his second decree, delivered with as much gravity as the first.

You hasten to comply, opening your mouth, running the wet flat of your tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip, feeling him engorge further as you do. Both of you groan, and you swirl the head of his dick with a long lick, rubbing the ridge with a brief fuckery of friction that makes him flinch and bite off a breath. This entire time he has left your head alone, giving you a choice, but now that you’ve clearly chosen, he loosely threads his left hand into your hair, gripping your locks.

The warmth of your mouth becomes a hot home for his cock as you swallow him down, letting the shine of your spit wet your lips and ease your path; he’s so big that you can only comfortably sheath him three-quarters of the way into your throat, and you grip the remainder of his shaft tightly, establishing your limits. He makes a noise of impatience, and you understand that he’s maintaining his discipline strictly – but it’s eroding. So you do as he bid.

The bob of your head is quick, the slurp of your mouth obscene pornography as you service him, and you’re rewarded with his darkly breathy groaning, rolling from his heaving chest with free abandon. You adore how vocal he is, and the thick throb of him in your throat; your cheeks curve concave as you suck, moving your hand in a stroke to rhythm your lip’s pace, flicking your eyes upwards. He’s completely enthralled by the sight of you, his hunter’s gaze fizzy with his pleasure, bright; beneath his shirt, you can see the tight knit of his abdomen as he wholly reacts to the feelings you create in him.

“Fuck,” He starts to moan, unable to stop the rock of his hips in time with your mouth, “You’re so fucking _good._ You look so good on your knees for me, sweet, mouth full of my cock.” The pet-name makes you purr around a mouthful of his cock, and the vibration sends a small drool of precome dripping onto your tongue. Between your legs, your cunt is screaming for attention; you press your unoccupied hand between them, fingers applying pressure over the fabric. This doesn’t go unnoticed.

With a snarl of regret, he withdraws from you, the _pop_ of your lips wickedly lewd; he regards you in your submissive position, cock-stretched lips swollen, your desperate hand still between your legs. His dick throbs impressively, shiny with your spittle. “What is it you _really_ want?” He asks.

“Y-you.” You whisper, trying not to squirm, wishing that damnable blush would stop deepening. He chuckles.

“Me? I’m here. You have me.”

“No,” You stutter, flicking your gaze to his boots, unwittingly rolling your hips against the hand between your legs, “I-I _want…_ ”

“Yes, sweet?” He strokes his dick, and you audibly whimper at the sight of a strand of precome dripping from his tip, the sticky web of it wasted on the ground.

“ _Fuck me._ ” It’s barely a mumble, and he scoffs.

“Can’t hear you. I can finish _myself_ off on those lovely tits if—”

“Please!” You interrupt, catching his taunting gilded gaze, desperation swimming in your own. “Geralt, _please_ **fuck me**. I-I want to feel you. _Please._ ”

He bends, then, and cups your chin with a finger, whispering, “Good girl.” The two words make you glow brighter than the far-eastern star that steals first position in the sky every evening.

Dropping to his knees, too, he unlaces your bodice enough to free your breasts, murmuring at the sight of them, briefly grazing the right one with a suckle as he captures your nipple, making you shiver. He’s not too interested in foreplay, though – not tonight. Guiding you to the ground, he bunches your skirts up, and unties the laces of your knickers, pulling them down the length of your legs. He grins wolfishly at the sight of your wet cunt, the spread of you a treat for all his heightened senses, and his slow toying does little to quell the fire that has begun to blaze in your body.

“Please–” You mewl again, and he shushes you.

“I heard you the _first_ time, sweet.” He rasps, cocky, and his strong hands grip your legs. With one easy movement, he lifts the lower half of your body, raising your legs high, your feet just about touching his shoulders. His dick slaps soundly against the folds of your cunt, and even that small friction makes you swoon.

You feel him position himself, and he enters you gently enough to get you used to the size of him, stretching you, filling you; the burn of it twines with pure pleasure, and you curl your toes, hands clutching your breasts. Your breath leaves your lungs in captive gasps.

And then he does as _he_ was bid.

His thrusts begin, not fast, but hard and deep, and you react instantaneously, feeling the ridge of his head catch the raw rough nerves within you; your spine arches as you cry out, pinching your nipples between forefinger and thumb. His hands are hard ‘round your waist, holding you in position for him, trusting you to keep your legs up. This angle is _perfection_ ; he’s so deep within you, so thick and hot. Your body responds to him quickly, and you hear the slap of his soaked balls against your ass every time he bottoms out. You cannot believe how quickly he has your thighs quivering, your butterfly-wing walls fluttering, the ‘o’ of your mouth wide as you encourage him in a verbal torrent.

“ _So good!_ ” He fucks the words from you, “Gods, I–” A gasp, “ _Fuck!_ ” Your coherency suffers as he picks up the pace, looming over you; he bends slightly to take you deeper – an impossibility, you’d thought – but when his battle-roughened thumb begins to brush your clit, you’re lost.

There’s nothing you can do but come apart beneath him, your body singing as your nerves bubble in effervescence, fucked-apart as you climax with a scream, feeling it snap through your body and unravel your mind like a spinning-wheel, him collecting the threads of you; he grunts through the clutch of you, his muscles tense, having to slow his tempo to not join you, flood you as his body begs of him. “You want me to come in you?” He asks of you, the grit of his voice scratching your blissed-out brain as you continue to shudder, “Want me to _fill_ your little cunt full, hm? Want to have me dripping– _fuck_ – from those _slutty_ lips?”

You whine, and he makes a more forceful thrust, letting you know that it’s not enough of an answer. “Yes!” You squeak, the sweat rolling from your brow; your hands are in the dirt, gripping, as your breasts bounce with his every movement. “P-please, f-fuck, _Geralt!_ Come… come in me.” With purpose, you squeeze the sensitive muscles of your cunt. “ _Fill your slut._ ”

“ **Fuck!** ” He roars, not expecting the turn-about; it’s his undoing, as he pushes himself as deeply as he possibly can within the cuddle of your walls, the heat of his seed a veritable flood as it pulses from him in thick ribbons, splashing inside of you, the tight seal of your puffy slit 'round his cock not enough to contain the cream that leaks from you, dripping between you, puddling on the ground. Everything he lost in that failed hunt, he spends on you; the frustration and anger, the misplaced energy, the thrill of a fight he never got to engage in. He gives you _everything_ , his orgasm vocal and long, until it’s drawn out from his every muscle and he’s supporting himself over you on considerably weakened arms, panting for breath.

Gently, softly, he draws away from you, lowering your legs to the ground with reverence. You feel boneless and dizzy, and you’re dimly aware of him returning with a clean cloth to place between your legs, before he scoops you up, leaning back against a log cross-legged. You curl against his chest, the cloth of his shirt sweat-damp.

“So… good.” You mutter, surprised you can even talk cogently. His laughter is a low vibration.

“You _did_ help me.” He admits, softly, pressing his lips to the crown of your head in a chaste kiss. “More than you know.”

You smile to yourself, stroking the exposed flesh of his forearm, letting the silence of the night and the sated sweetness envelop both of you in contented warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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